


Scrapping for the Crown

by mongoose_bite



Series: Dyce the Incredibly Easy Breton [8]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Femdom, Older Woman/Younger Man, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:52:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mongoose_bite/pseuds/mongoose_bite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dragonborn, Dyce, is exceptionally hard to interrogate; he takes a far too positive attitude towards the whole thing. Legate Rikke, on the other hand, did not get where she is now by being inflexible and unwilling to work with what she’s got. Game on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scrapping for the Crown

“Dammit, they’re right behind us, Dyce,” Ralof said. “And we’re outnumbered here.”

The sounds of battle were already drifting from the front of the tomb, and the Stormcloak soldiers hesitated, waiting for the Dragonborn’s response.

“Well, hold them off,” Dyce said. “But don’t kill yourselves; just buy me enough time to get the crown and go. We don’t need to hold this place.” As he spoke the doors crashed open and everyone dived for cover as the Legion archers sent forth a volley of arrows.

“Good luck,” Ralof called over his shoulder as Dyce turned to go. He wasn’t the only one to watch the Breton leave; at the head of her soldiers, Legate Rikke also watched him go, and her eyes narrowed.

Dyce realised he was pursued soon enough when he stopped to dispatch a couple of draugr who were stirring from their resting places. You couldn’t miss the sound of Imperial steel and footsteps. Dyce turned and drew his bow, and as soon as his pursuer rounded the corner he let the arrow fly.

His jaw dropped as the Nord woman batted away his arrow with her shield.

“Stop!” she shouted.

Dyce turned and ran. He was confident that he’d be able to lose her; he rolled under swinging blades, leaped over pressure plates and tripwires, and did not stop when he heard the breathy roars of awakening draugr. She could handle whatever shambled in his wake.

And she did. He scooped up a claw and was on his toes, hauling the stone door into the appropriate combination, when he heard the sound of steel on steel and heavy, confident footsteps approaching. Dyce went from not having time to fight her to not really _wanting_ to go toe-to-toe with the one-woman army that was apparently approaching.

“Oh come on, come on.” The sound of stone grinding against itself echoed down the chamber as the door started lowering, agonisingly slowly. As soon as there was a big enough gap at the top, Dyce scaled the door and squeezed himself over, dropping down on the other side and into the cold arms of a draugr. He stabbed it, slightly panicked, until it fell and then he took off again. Stairs were too slow; he leaped off walkways and rolled when he hit the lower floors.

“Stop!”

He looked over his shoulder and their eyes met across a room of shambling undead. Dyce drew his bow, aimed up, and sent a lamp smashing down to the floor below. He didn’t know why some tombs were so oily and he had an idea that he didn’t want to know, but the flames leaped up gratifyingly high and the undead roared and stumbled.

Dyce grinned and waved at the Legate as she waited impotently on the other side of the sea of flames. “Bye-bye.”

He kicked open the doors to the final chamber, where a long-dead king presided over a banquet of dust. Dyce smiled to see the Jagged Crown still on the dried and blackened head. Quietly now, but still fast, Dyce snuck up to the deceased monarch, and deftly plucked the crown off his head.

He threw himself backwards just in time as an Imperial gladius flew past him and embedded itself in the chest of the corpse.

The Legate stood there, breathing heavily and glaring at him. The corpse started to move. With a crack of breaking stone, two other tombs began to open as the dead king raised a glowing blue gaze. Dyce dropped the crown on the table, yanked the gladius from the corpse and threw it, hilt first, back to the Legate.

Rikke caught it one-handed and charged into battle. The draugr Shouted, and Dyce was blown like a leaf halfway down the length of the room. Rikke swung her sword and the draugr parried, knocking her away. By now the other undead were upright and Dyce’s blades flashed as he joined the fray.

Dyce Shouted, vomiting fire at one of the creatures, and Rikke gave him a shocked look before darting in to finish it off. It wasn’t them that were the problem. The undead king Shouted and scattered all before him. Rikke planted her shield in the dust while Dyce crouched behind her sliding poison down his blades before they joined the battle again. Rikke used her shield as a weapon as much as her sword, holding off the draugr’s blows while Dyce tore and cut.

Nearly dead, it Shouted again, and rather than close the distance Dyce put an arrow in its eye.

In sudden silence, Legionare and Stormcloak looked at each other for a moment.

Dyce ducked as Rikke put her sword through the empty space his head had been a moment earlier, and he dived under her guard, his blade grating on her armour. She batted him aside. They didn’t say anything; they duelled, each had seen the measure of the other against the draugr.

Dyce was aware that sooner or later reinforcements would come, and they would be on her side, not his. He couldn’t afford to wear her down and wait for a mistake. So he Shouted, sending her skidding back towards the door, and he he ran the other way, leaping for the crown, still on the table where he dropped it.

He heard footsteps behind him but he was so close! He stretched out a hand for the crown. And then he was flattened as Nord woman in plate armour leaped on his back and crushed him against the table. A gauntleted hand descended on his head and pushed his cheek into the aged wood.

She was astride him, and one of his arms was pinned against his side by her leg. He writhed, trying to buck her off using his free hand to brace himself, but to no avail. He couldn’t get any leverage.

“Got you,” she said. “Slippery little bastard.”

He stopped struggling when her blade sank into the table about an inch from the end of his nose.

“I should kill you now,” she said. “Even if you don’t wear Stormcloak colours you are fighting against the Empire.”

“But I’m too handsome to die?” Dyce asked hopefully.

“You’re Dragonborn. Skyrim might have need of you yet.”

With much clatter and shouting, a group of Imperial soldiers stormed into the room. Rikke leaned back on her perch.

“Relax, his wings are clipped.”

They gagged him, bound his hands, and removed his weapons. Dyce didn’t resist as two soldiers hauled him off and back towards the entrance, where the Imperials had set up a forward base.

They didn’t want him Shouting at anything breakable and causing trouble so they put him on his back on a table, his legs hooked over the edge and bound to the legs and his arms stretched out to the corners in a small room off from the main entry hall. And then they left him while they organised defenses and searched the tomb more thoroughly.

Dyce passed the time by humming songs to himself through the gag.

“You’re very cheerful.” Legate Rikke had removed her helmet, and Dyce gazed up into a mature, weathered face with piercing eyes and a strong jaw. He hummed conversationally at her.

“Really? Fascinating.” She circled the table, examining him from all angles. “Frankly I’m disappointed; the bards sing songs of a new hero and I find him serving Ulfric. Why is that funny?” She shrugged, “Hero or not, you need to answer some questions, and then you can think on your politics in a dungeon for a while. ”

“So let’s get some details straight first. Eventually, I’m going to take off that gag and you’re going to tell me what you know about the strength of Ulfric’s forces and where their bases are located.” She had a dagger in her hand, and she trailed it down Dyce’s cheek. “And if you refuse, I’m going to stop being so polite.” Dyce flinched as she slapped the flat of the blade against his thigh. “Are you comfortable? I can make you a great deal less comfortable. Maybe you’d prefer to stand up, or to kneel, maybe I should just let you hang like a piece of meat from the ceiling.”

“And then? Beaten? It’s crude but effective and I need to get results before we head back to Solitude if I can. What’s that? You have something you want to say now? Just nod. Good. I’ll take this off then.” She slid the blade under the gag and sliced through the cotton with one swift movement.

“Oh Gods,” Dyce groaned. “Please.”

Rikke raised an eyebrow and her gaze travelled down the length of his body to where his cock was pressing against the leather of his pants. Her gaze snapped back up to meet his and he tried to shrug as best he could with his arms stretched out.

“You have a nice voice?”

She raised her hand to her forehead and turned away from him for a few moments. Dyce felt it was a bit awkward, but it really hadn’t been his fault. Really.

“I can see that this interrogation isn’t going to go as it usually does,” she said. She looked over her shoulder at him, something wicked gleaming in her eyes. “All right then, we’ll play it your way. I’m still going to get what I want.”

She went and kicked the door closed. Then she turned back to him and unbuckled his jacket, exposing his chest and stomach. She trailed her fingernails over his skin for a while, watching him twitch and squirm.

He licked his lips, “Are you gonna ask me questions?”

“That eager to answer them? Not yet, my traitorous Stormcloak. You have no reason to answer them, but don’t worry.” Her lips curved into a smile, “I’ll give you one.”

“I feel I should state upfront that I don’t actually know any of the answers. I’m mostly freelance- ah!” She’d bent down and closed her teeth firmly around his left nipple. “That is, I don’t really care where their bases are and I never thought to ask.” She sucked hard, and when she raised her head Dyce tried to raise his to see what sort of mark she’d left. It felt like she’d left a big one.

She made no comment to his confession, and instead moved on to his belt, taking it from its loops around his waist and coiling it in her hands. “Now, I chose this room because these heavy tomb doors make things nice and soundproof; don’t want to hurt morale. So you can be as loud as you like.”

She put the belt down long enough to strip off her gloves and breastplate, leaving only the cloth that bound her breasts on her upper half. Dyce stared in unfeigned admiration at her solid frame, at the scars, and the legion tattoo that was on her right shoulder.

“I am a very lucky man,” he said.

She picked up the belt, “You are indeed. I’ve never tried this on a Breton before.” And then she brought it down across his chest, not too hard, but the bite she’d left earlier stung, and Dyce twitched and the ropes that bound his wrists creaked. He’d tested them before, but as she whipped him again and again with his own belt he found himself testing them again, his muscles flexing as he tried to pull his hands free.

“Go on,” she told him, “struggle.”

He gasped and grunted as blows rained down on his chest and arms and stomach, the sound of leather and skin loud in the confined space. She wanted him to struggle and he did, tugging at the ropes, his head bumping against the wooden table as he arched his back trying to work them loose. She’d tied him well.

Soon his hips were leaving the table with every slap, and he was chanting under his breath, “Come on, come on, please.”

She stopped. “You want me to fuck you?” She was breathing heavily, although she wasn’t panting like he was. “Do you?”

“Yes!”

“Then tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything!”

“Oh.” She tossed the belt aside. “All right then.” She undid his pants, and his cock sprang free, aching and wet. “Hmm.” She bent over him, and he could feel her fingers on him, just light touches. “There we go,” she said with a satisfied look. Her hair swung free from her braid.

Dyce raised his head, “Wait, what have you done?”

She smiled at him, “Just made sure you were fully restrained.” She’d taken the ribbon that had tied her hair, and tied it around the base of his cock instead.

Dyce let his head fall back against the table. Oh. Oh shit. A finger tickled his balls, “You’re going to tell me what I want to know, I’m quite sure of that.”

“Which is good, only I don’t know anything,” Dyce said. Rikke paid him little attention, instead climbing up on the table and sitting astride him again.

“You’re quite handsome really, I’m so glad we don’t have to ruin those fine features to get you to talk. And don’t worry, I can take all night if I have to.” She took hold of his cock, holding him still while Dyce’s breath hitched and he felt her impale herself on him. She rolled her hips slowly, savouring him.

And then she started moving in earnest, rocking herself off him and then driving herself back down again, pushing him deep, where his cock wanted to go. His hips matched her pace and his fingers curled and uncurled uselessly.

Her blonde hair framed her face as she watched him. He wasn’t fucking her. She wasn’t really fucking him, she was fucking herself _with_ him, a living toy who couldn’t even try and set the pace.

He just had to hold out, and he gritted his teeth. She squeezed him, her inner walls releasing him only reluctantly when she slid forward. He felt her fingernails on his chest again, her legs pressing against his hips. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t hold out forever, and she was relentless. His gasps, wrung reluctantly from between gritted teeth became abandoned moans, and she started joining in, encouraging him.

“You look a little desperate,” she said, her voice low. “Stormcloak camps, tell me where they are and I might untie that cute little ribbon you’ve got around your dick.”

“I...don’t know.”

“Pity.” She sped up slightly, her muscles flexing, her hands on his shoulders and her breasts were still bound but he got a view of some impressive cleavage anyway. Dyce whimpered.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t-” His lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl of pure frustration. “Bleak Falls Barrow!” he shouted. It was the only name he could think of.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Fort...uh...” Fuck, he didn’t know the names of any forts. Come on, he’d been in a few, surely. “Fort.” He was so close, but he couldn’t come. “Argh fuck you! I don’t know!”

“Uh huh, how many other Stormcloaks were here today?”

“A dozen.”

“Close enough, where did they come from?”

“I don’t know, I met them here. Please let me go.”

“Let you _go_? I thought you wanted to come.” She was grinding on him hard and fast now, and her own words were a little unsteady. She watched Dyce writhe and thrust for a while longer, and then she reached down between her legs and tugged at the knot on the ribbon.

“Go on then, yes, _fuck_!” Her fingernails dug in hard enough to break the skin as he thrust up hard enough to lift her body weight and he shouted as he came, wordless, all-consuming pleasure on the edge of pain and she milked him for everything, riding him hard gasping for breath until she fell back with a shudder.

Dyce’s hands hung slack in the ropes as she slid off him and back on her feet, at little unsteadily.

“I suppose,” she pushed her hair out of her face. “You were telling the truth after all. Pity.” And then she buckled on her armour and left him still gleaming with his own come.

Dyce waited for his heart to slow down, and then he took a deep breath and braced himself. This was probably going to hurt.

“ _FUSRODAH!_ ”

The downward force of his shout against the ceiling splintered the legs on the table and it and Dyce came crashing down in a painful pile of wood and rope and Breton. Dyce was on his feet in moments, doing up his pants and retrieving his belt. Time to go.

He snuck out of the room, and elbowed an unfortunate soldier in the face, catching him before he fell and lowering him quietly. He ached in about a million places, and when he found his gear, stuffed in a chest, he drank several restore health and stamina potions.

It was dark outside. They’d been in there for hours. Dyce edged around the Imperial camp until he found the Legate’s tent. The crown was sitting on a table. As quiet as a cloud he drifted in, jammed the crown on his own head, and drifted out again before leaping on the nearest horse.

“I had a lovely time!” he shouted, before galloping off to catch up with Ralof’s unit.


End file.
